


Food for the Soul

by Just_here_for_a_laugh



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: ALL HAPPY ENDINGS, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Angst, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Fluff, Cooking, Cute, Domestic, Domestic Batfamily (DCU), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff, Fluffy, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Hurt/Comfort, Time Skips, batfam, child Bruce Wayne, each chapter is a different person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_here_for_a_laugh/pseuds/Just_here_for_a_laugh
Summary: Alfred has just as many skills as every other member of the batfamily, maybe more. One of them is cooking. Another is making people smile.Each chapter is a different person cooking with everyone's favorite butler/dad/grandpa/superhero Alfred Pennyworth
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Duke Thomas, Alfred Pennyworth & Everyone, Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth & Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon & Alfred Pennyworth, Cassandra Cain & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Stephanie Brown & Alfred Pennyworth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	1. Bruce

Alfred stood in the kitchen and listened. The great halls of the Manor, long and bold and imposing, were silent. The entire house was filled with a silence like he’d never known; it was not only without sound, but without hope. All the possibility and the potential that had once lived in the happy home along with its inhabitants was absent. It seemed that with the Waynes gone so was the Manor’s spirit; it was empty.

  
As he hung his head and merely existed in the hollow silence, a small shuffling sound pulled him out of his reflection and reminded him that the Manor was not in fact entirely empty. There, just barely in the doorway, was Bruce. The young master hugged the wall by the door and looked down at his small polished shoes. He was drawn into himself and he too was silent. He looked so small. Alfred stood himself up into his traditionally impeccable posture and smiled at the young boy who had so suddenly been placed solely in his care.

  
“Good afternoon, Master Bruce.” The boy nodded in response. Under normal circumstances the butler would have insisted that the young man respond by mirroring the phrase back, but in this moment he could let manners be a bit lax. As horridly as the loss was hitting him, he knew that his friends’ deaths were affecting their son even more so. He also knew that there was a time for embracing grief, and a time for finding joy in spite of it. It would seem that this time was one of the latter. “Come here Master Bruce, I could use your assistance.” The young boy came dutifully over, still sullen but now also somewhat intrigued.

  
“What do you need help with, Alfred?” The butler smiled.

  
“I am going to make some dessert for the two of us and it is much easier to make cannoli with two sets of hands.” Bruce gasped softly, he loved cannoli and Alfred’s was second to none. Then, Bruce cast a skeptical look at Alfred, like he didn’t quite believe him.

  
“But we haven’t eaten dinner yet,” he said warily. He knew the rules well and Alfred did not allow desert before dinner, not ever. Alfred smiled at the boy with no small degree of pride.

  
“You are observant as always Master Bruce. We have not, however, cannoli cream needs time to set up. If we make the cannoli now they should be ready just in time to eat after our supper.” This line of reasoning seemed sound to the young Wayne and he smiled. It was the first time he had really smiled in the weeks since his parents were killed and Alfred could not remember the last thing that had made him as happy as that smile on his new ward’s face.

  
They set to work making the cannoli shells, with Bruce fetching the ingredients that he could reach as Alfred retrieved the rest. Bruce watched intently as Alfred carefully measured out the ingredients and put them into the bowl. It was Bruce’s job to mix everything together and he did a pretty good job of it if he did say so himself, and Alfred even let him measure out the water. Alfred was very proud of him for being so careful and not spilling even a drop, and he told him as much. Had he spilled any of it there wouldn’t have been any damage because it was only water, which was exactly why he let the boy measure it, but he felt it best not to include that particular fact in his praise.

  
By the time the shells were in the oven and they started to make the cream, both of them were in much higher spirits than they had been. Alfred told Bruce stories of his youth back in England like the first time he had seen a horse and been so startled that he nearly knocked over his father trying to escape, or the time that he had to explain to his mother that he was sopping wet because Old Man McGordon had chased him off of his property and right into a pond. Bruce himself told Alfred a story that he did not know, a rare occurence to be sure, about how he had accidentally let the class rabbit out of its cage during recess when he had been sent back in to wash mud off of his uniform, and how he had only gotten the rabbit back into its enclosure just before everyone came back inside. The two laughed uproariously as they traded stories and when Bruce was so bold as to flick cream at Alfred all rules about a tidy kitchen were temporarily suspended as they laughed even harder and battled one another throwing the filling everywhere. There may have been a few shells left empty as a result, but the butler considered the loss well worth it, especially after Bruce asked him to teach him how to throw with such good aim.

  
Once the shells were out of the oven and the cream was chilling, Bruce went upstairs to change into a new set of clothes and Alfred, who thanks to his young ward’s less than perfect throwing skills only had to remove his jacket, set the table for supper. After they ate they filled the cannoli and sat down to enjoy their homemade treat. The two once again told stories and laughed, forgetting their grief for a moment and instead letting themselves take joy in the family that they had left. And as their voices filled the Manor it was not quite as it had been, but it was enough.


	2. Dick

Alfred listened intently, trying to identify the faint noise. It was a quiet creaking sound and he could not for the life of him figure out what it was or where it was coming from, that is until it was followed by a loud crash. Then he knew exactly what the noise had been and raced into the dining room. There, laying on the table and under the swinging chandelier, holding his elbow, was nine year old Dick Grayson. He had been with them for almost a year now but every day still brought new surprises Alfred mused as he went to the boy’s aid. Helping him sit up the butler examined his bruised elbow.

  
“Well,” he sighed, “judging from this bruise it looks like you must have gotten some impressive height.” Dick chuckled softly in spite of himself. It was not the first time something like this had happened. Dick was always bouncing around the Manor and swinging from whatever he could find a way to climb up on, which was nearly everything, but he was usually quite balanced and graceful. It was only when he was having a bad day, when his grief once again washed over him anew that he got reckless and clumsy as he swung, doing more and more daring feats with less and less discipline and caution in a frenzied effort to feel close to his parents again. It was these outbursts that nearly always ended in a fall. Alfred knew from the fact that the two were standing in the dining room with one of them sitting on the mahogany table that this was one of those times. “It would seem that you are quite alright, and thus I do not see a reason to tell Master Bruce about this.” He assured the young boy.

  
“Thanks Alfie,” Dick said, looking down at his feet. “I really am sorry.”

  
“Well, it is my policy to accept all genuine apologies wholeheartedly.” He said with a soft smile, and Dick looked up and nearly matched his expression, though Dick’s smile had a bit more sadness in it still. “Now,” Alfred said, stepping back and extending his hand to Dick, “let’s see if we can’t find another place to put all of that energy.” Dick took his hand and hopped off the table. He allowed himself to be guided out of the dining room.

  
“Where are we going?” he asked.

  
“I thought perhaps you would help me make dinner.” Dick smiled slightly and his steps became just a little lighter.

  
“Okay.” It was still mid afternoon but Dick didn’t seem to notice the time disparity. All he cared about was what they were going to do and how they were going to do it. He asked Alfred what they were going to be preparing and when the response was pot roast, which Dick knew nothing about, he asked even more questions about what was in it and how it was made and was it good or was it icky like the squishy stuff at the last Wayne gala. Alfred explained everything to him, including that that squishy stuff was called liver pate, and began to get out some of the spices used in the dish. Dick was now sitting on a table again, though this time voluntarily and this time in the kitchen. He wasn’t exactly happy but he was no longer frustrated enough to launch himself off of any more of the many Manor chandeliers.

  
“Essentially,” the butler concluded, “pot roast is just meat and vegetables with some spices cooked slowly over a few hours and served like stew.” Dick nodded, brightening slightly.

  
“My mom used to make something like that.” He told Alfred. “It wasn’t a stew but it had meat and vegetables and spices and also pasta.”

  
“Ah, I believe you are talking about goulash, another fine dish.”

  
“Yeah that’s it!” Dick exclaimed, “That’s what Mama called it!” He thought back for a moment to his mother’s homemade goulash and how they would have it together after practice or a performance, all talking and laughing about the day. Once again he smiled sadly. Alfred saw it and smiled sadly too. After a moment however, Alfred clasped his hands together and said,

  
“Shall we get started?” Dick jumped down off the table and started to help Alfred with the ingredients. Dick retrieved what they needed from the fridge and Alfred chopped it up. As they worked Alfred told Dick how he had learned this recipe from his own mother and how she used to make pot roasts on long winters nights and after dinner they would all sit by the fire and tell stories. He was able to recall a few and tell them to Dick who was enthralled by each one. They had long since finished preparing the pot roast, all that was left now was to wait for it to cook, but still they sat in the kitchen as Alfred told Dick the stories his parents had once told him.

  
“Alfred?” Dick asked when the butler finished his last story.

  
“Yes Master Richard?”

  
“Where are your parents now?” He looked intently at his shirtsleeve, fearing the answer to his question. Alfred smiled softly at him.

  
“They have passed on now.”

  
“Oh.” said Dick. That was what he hadn’t wanted to hear. “I’m sorry.”

  
“Thank you,” said Alfred. “It was very hard for me when I lost them. But now it is easier. I don’t love them any less than I did when they were living or when they first died, it was just that over time the pain of the loss has been overshadowed by that love, and now when I think of them it is with fond memories instead of sadness and longing.” Dick looked like he was thinking very hard about what the butler had just said. Alfred seemed to be telling the truth, but he had a hard time believing that it would happen for him too.

  
Once again Alfred spoke. “Do you know what helps me feel better about my parents being gone?” he asked. Dick shook his head. “Telling stories about them, just like now. Telling stories about them and telling the stories that they told me helps me feel close to them again.” Dick nodded. That made sense, in a way. The two sat quietly for a few minutes before Dick spoke up again.

  
“Hey Alfie?”

  
“Yes Master Richard?”  
“Do you want to hear a story my dad used to tell me?”

  
“I would love to.”

  


  


  
That night as Dick, Alfred, and Bruce sat around the dinner table the day’s cooks regaled Bruce with stories of the day. Stories both of the adventures of making pot roast as well as stories their parents had told them. Bruce himself even joined in and told some that his parents used to tell him as a child. The three of them talked and laughed throughout the evening, and they all felt a little closer to the ones they had lost, and a lot closer to the ones they had still.


	3. Barbara

Alfred stood on the mezzanine dusting a Ming Dynasty vase as he listened to the hushed tones coming from the foyer below him. As he walked through the door to his right into the library, he saw a young Barbara Gordon doing the same. Her father had been injured in a shootout earlier in the night. Bruce was discussing the Commissioner’s condition with one of the officers downstairs, and while Barbara had gone up to read it was clear that she had abandoned her book, if she had ever started it, to try and listen for any updates about her father. It had been Alfred who had gotten the call about the commissioner; Bruce was listed as one of his emergency contacts and since Batman was out patrolling it was the butler who answered the call to the Manor. Immediately after he called Bruce who had instantly flown home, Alfred had promptly called the Gordon house to alert the babysitter that he would be coming to pick up Barbara within the half hour. She needed to be somewhere safe and he could think of no safer place. But what was more was she needed to be around people who loved her, and loved her father as well.

  
“I find it difficult to read in times of stress myself, Miss Barbara,” Alfred said, causing the young girl to flinch slightly out of her concentration. She looked down a bit ashamed and Alfred smiled warmly. “It’s quite alright my dear.” He walked over to the chair beside her and sat down. “What is it that you were trying to read?”

  
“Alice in Wonderland.” The girl answered. She looked down at the ancient blue cover and felt the frayed sky-blue ribbon bookmark between her fingertips.

  
“A fine choice.” Alfred nodded. “My mother used to read it to me as a child, and I spent many an hour in our garden looking for a rabbit hole of my own.” The butler smiled fondly at the memory, but the little girl did not look up.

  
“My dad reads it to me sometimes too,” she said in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. Alfred looked at the young girl curled up in the chair, so small and scared. The heavy silences between their words were threaded with the whispered concern of the men downstairs. He wished that Dick was around to distract her, the two were such good friends, but he was spending the week at the Kent farm. Instead Barbara was here and her father was in the hospital and the little acrobat was nowhere around to help, so Alfred decided to do it himself.

  
“Are you hungry, Miss Barbara?” he asked. The girl nodded. Alfred stood up and extended his gloved hand cordially. “Well, I’m afraid that the food here will not make you tall as a building or tiny as a mouse, but I believe it will do you some good. Let’s go see what we have, shall we?” Barbara took his hand and followed him to the Manor kitchen. She sat down at the table and Alfred walked over to inspect the pantry. He thought for a moment as he considered the food in front of him. It was nowhere near any standard mealtime, but he knew as it was nearly two in the morning it would likely have been several hours since the young girl had had anything to eat so something on the heavier side was in order.

  
“If I remember correctly,” Alfred began, “you are quite the fan of tomato soup and grilled cheese.” Barbara looked up at him and nodded, a little bolder than before. Alfred smiled and retrieved a can of tomato soup. There were times for meticulous and delicious culinary effort, and there were times to quickly feed a scared young girl. He set the can on the counter and went to get the other ingredients, but he paused when he saw Barbara stand and go towards one of the cabinets. He watched her open it and pull out a soup pan, impressed that she had been so observant as to watch and remember where he had gotten it from on one of the many occasions she had dined with the family. “There’s no need for you to do that my dear, I’ve got it,” he said compassionately.

  
“I want to,” Barbara answered quietly. Alfred was certainly not going to deny her an opportunity to think about something other than her worries, so he nodded.

  
“Well then thank you, I would appreciate that very much.” The young girl nodded back and for the first time that night, she even gave a small smile.

  
The two set to work preparing the food. Alfred operated all of the bladed equipment like knives and can openers while Barabara arranged the cheese on bread and stirred the soup occasionally. Once Alfred put the sandwiches on the frying pan Barbara went to set the table. The butler turned around to find not one but two place settings at the kitchen table. Barbara was seated already, swinging her feet absentmindedly a few inches from the ground much like Dick tended to do. Alfred smiled and sat down, serving Barbara the majority of the food but taking some soup and half a sandwich for himself in order to seem properly appreciative of her thoughtful consideration.

  
As Barbara worked on her soup, she began stacking the half sandwiches on her plate into some sort of structure. After a few moments, Alfred asked “That is a very interesting structure you are building, Miss Barbara, what is it?”

  
“A castle,” came the answer.

  
“Well,” Alfred said, reaching across the table to grab the salt and pepper shakers, “every castle needs guards.” He set the shakers down in front of the breaded archway. He took the fork which he did not need but Barbara had set out when she set the table, most likely out of habit, and placed it with one end resting on the edge of her plate and the other arcing down to the table. “And a drawbridge.” Barbara grinned.

  
“And a field for festivals,” she added, placing her napkin down beside the plate.

  
“Of course,” smiled the butler. The two continued adding to the little castle and crafting stories around its inhabitants throughout their meal. The pacing and the whispers still lingered in the foyer, but now they were accompanied by stories and laughter, and in turn made for easier listening in the quiet of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I don't own DC comics or anything associated with it. Happy reading!


End file.
